Billie flashed her badge and told her that they wanted to speak to the lady of the house. While they waited, Billie looked around the Masterson property. She spotted three gardeners. One was pruning hedges, one was mowing the lawn, and one was on his knees, working in a flower garden. Billie thought about the tiny cottage where she and Sherman had grown up. The lawn was a small brown patch overrun by weeds and surrounded by a rusted chain-link fence. If flowers ever grew in it, Billie had never seen them. “Senorita Masterson is by the pool,” the maid said when she returned. “This way, please.” Any evidence that the Masterson house had been a crime scene had disappeared, and there was a notable absence of the stench of death when they passed the den. The maid led the detectives through a massive living room and out a set of French windows that opened onto a wide flagstone patio. A narrow strip of lawn separated the patio from a large pool. Veronica Masterson was stretched out on a lounge chair, clothed—if you could call it that—in a skimpy, yellow string bikini that was unlike any widow’s weeds Billie had ever seen.
